Relative Dimension In Space), holding it carelessly.
"I never noticed," I say. I take the TARDIS out of her hands and put it back on my desk. I spent hours assembling and painting the Doctor's time machine; I wouldn't want anything to happen to it.
Shannon doesn't wear much makeup. She's not flashy and sparkly and turning heads every time she enters a room, but she has a deep well of hotness.
"Why do you need a picture of some other girl in here?"
Shannon straightens her school photo, which sits framed on my desk.
I feel like saying,
Come onnnn! You must be joking! It's a poster.
Instead I reach over and take Shannon's hand, pulling her down next to me on the bed. "Don't be jealous," I say.
"Blake," she says. "Your parents."
"They just made their rounds. We should be good for a few minutes."
She looks at me from under her lashes and leans closer. "Listen," she whispers.
I listen. I don't hear anything except the sound of the piano.
"That song," she says, moving her lips to my neck. "Isn't it pretty? I've played it. It's called 'My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice.'"
Then, well, we do what we can with our limited privacy. I hope my mom goes on playing that song forever. After a while I forget where I am, and Shannon reminds me by taking my hand in an iron grip and removing it from its softandgorgeous destination. She sits up and moves away from me.
I groan and bury my face in the pillow. "Give me a minute," I mumble. When I finally sit up and look over at Shannon, she looks kind of glowing and breathless, and I suddenly comprehend that primal urge to grab and
take.
Roughly.
But I would never grab and take from Shannon. Or any girl. God! What kind of animal would do that?
Still. This urge, this
drive,
feels like the most powerful thing in the universe. So the meaning of life is ... sex?
That can't be right. All of this heavy thinking is helping me decompress, anyway. My heart rate and other functions are returning to normal. Whew. I'm less likely to do something macho now.
"Maybe I should go," says Shannon.
"I guess so," I say. I don't hear the piano anymore.
She stands up and adjusts her shirt. "Don't you have a mirror in here?"
I look around my room. I never thought about it before. "No," I say. I make a mental note to add a mirror, just for occasions like this. "You look perfect," I say.
She curves into my arms again, but then we hear someone coming down the hall, and she jumps back.
My mom treads heavily past the room, carrying a stack of towels.
"Hi, Mom," I say.
She turns and gives an innocent smile, like,
Oh hello ... didn't realize your room was right there ... just on my way to the linen closet, la la la...
"Could you give us a ride to Shannon's house?"
Sure. Just let me put these towels in the hall closet," she says. "Right," I say.
As Shannon and I exit the room, she gives Rose Tyler a playful slap and growls, "Watch out. He's mine!"
***
"Blake, can you help me with something in the garage?"
My dad is standing in the doorway to my room, wearing his grease monkey coveralls. His wild hair flies free, somehow looking even more electrocuted than usual.
Uhn? My dad never asks me to help him in the garage. He gave that up when I was about twelve years old. And sure enough, I hear Garrett call from his room, "What do you need, Dad? I'll help."
"No thanks, bud. I need Blake at the moment."
"Are you sure?" Garrett appears in the doorway to his room, cell phone in hand. "Hang on a minute," he mutters into the phone, then looks at Dad. "What are you doing?"
My dad shifts from one foot to the other. "It's, uh"âhe gives a weak smileâ"I just need Blake. Come on." He turns and heads downstairs.
Garrett watches him go, a look of disbelief on his face. "Must need a midget for comic relief," he says, and goes back into his room, shutting the door.
Crap on toast.
What the hell?
I go to the garage, where my dad is standing near his huge rolling toolbox.
"What do you need help with?" I ask.
"Oh,
"I never noticed," I say. I take the TARDIS out of her hands and put it back on my desk. I spent hours assembling and painting the Doctor's time machine; I wouldn't want anything to happen to it.
Shannon doesn't wear much makeup. She's not flashy and sparkly and turning heads every time she enters a room, but she has a deep well of hotness.
"Why do you need a picture of some other girl in here?"
Shannon straightens her school photo, which sits framed on my desk.
I feel like saying,
Come onnnn! You must be joking! It's a poster.
Instead I reach over and take Shannon's hand, pulling her down next to me on the bed. "Don't be jealous," I say.
"Blake," she says. "Your parents."
"They just made their rounds. We should be good for a few minutes."
She looks at me from under her lashes and leans closer. "Listen," she whispers.
I listen. I don't hear anything except the sound of the piano.
"That song," she says, moving her lips to my neck. "Isn't it pretty? I've played it. It's called 'My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice.'"
Then, well, we do what we can with our limited privacy. I hope my mom goes on playing that song forever. After a while I forget where I am, and Shannon reminds me by taking my hand in an iron grip and removing it from its softandgorgeous destination. She sits up and moves away from me.
I groan and bury my face in the pillow. "Give me a minute," I mumble. When I finally sit up and look over at Shannon, she looks kind of glowing and breathless, and I suddenly comprehend that primal urge to grab and
take.
Roughly.
But I would never grab and take from Shannon. Or any girl. God! What kind of animal would do that?
Still. This urge, this
drive,
feels like the most powerful thing in the universe. So the meaning of life is ... sex?
That can't be right. All of this heavy thinking is helping me decompress, anyway. My heart rate and other functions are returning to normal. Whew. I'm less likely to do something macho now.
"Maybe I should go," says Shannon.
"I guess so," I say. I don't hear the piano anymore.
She stands up and adjusts her shirt. "Don't you have a mirror in here?"
I look around my room. I never thought about it before. "No," I say. I make a mental note to add a mirror, just for occasions like this. "You look perfect," I say.
She curves into my arms again, but then we hear someone coming down the hall, and she jumps back.
My mom treads heavily past the room, carrying a stack of towels.
"Hi, Mom," I say.
She turns and gives an innocent smile, like,
Oh hello ... didn't realize your room was right there ... just on my way to the linen closet, la la la...
"Could you give us a ride to Shannon's house?"
Sure. Just let me put these towels in the hall closet," she says. "Right," I say.
As Shannon and I exit the room, she gives Rose Tyler a playful slap and growls, "Watch out. He's mine!"
***
"Blake, can you help me with something in the garage?"
My dad is standing in the doorway to my room, wearing his grease monkey coveralls. His wild hair flies free, somehow looking even more electrocuted than usual.
Uhn? My dad never asks me to help him in the garage. He gave that up when I was about twelve years old. And sure enough, I hear Garrett call from his room, "What do you need, Dad? I'll help."
"No thanks, bud. I need Blake at the moment."
"Are you sure?" Garrett appears in the doorway to his room, cell phone in hand. "Hang on a minute," he mutters into the phone, then looks at Dad. "What are you doing?"
My dad shifts from one foot to the other. "It's, uh"âhe gives a weak smileâ"I just need Blake. Come on." He turns and heads downstairs.
Garrett watches him go, a look of disbelief on his face. "Must need a midget for comic relief," he says, and goes back into his room, shutting the door.
Crap on toast.
What the hell?
I go to the garage, where my dad is standing near his huge rolling toolbox.
"What do you need help with?" I ask.
"Oh,
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